


Deadshot's Rules about Sex

by anissa7118



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anissa7118/pseuds/anissa7118
Summary: Floyd Lawton has three rules about sex, and he doesn't break them for anyone - no matter how much he might want to.





	1. Rule Number One

The Suicide Squad’s first mission amounted to saving the world from Waller’s mistake. Their second mission was to recapture Harley.  Floyd wasn’t too keen on that.  Yeah, it was good to be out again, and the promise of another five years off his sentence if he retrieved her with no casualties certainly helped his motivation.  He just didn’t like dragging someone – anyone – back to prison.  Killing people was one thing, he’d never had problems pulling the trigger on some scumbag, but locking them up in a deep dark hole was something else entirely. 

And yet … this was more than a straightforward capture. Floyd had seen the look in Harley’s eyes when Joker first showed up to collect her.  That look scared him when nothing else about her did.  She’d walked out into a hail of gunfire, taking off her jacket, and her expression had blazed with pure, blind, absolutely mad fanaticism.  That had been the first time he’d really, truly thought she was insane.

Harley wanted everyone to know she was one helluva crazy broad, cracking jokes about her meds and giggling merrily when any sane person should’ve run away screaming, but Floyd had the idea that some of that was an act. Not all of it, of course, but she was too nuts when she was putting on a show. And too connected when she wasn’t.

Sure, you couldn’t call her sane, that much was for sure, but who among them was?  Maybe Katana, and that was stretching it.  Even Floyd knew there was something not quite right about himself, that he could snuff out lives the way other people turned off the lights, and go to bed just as easily afterward.  Anyway, with the Squad, Harley had been mostly tuned into reality – enough so to fool a six-thousand-year-old witch and yank her heart out, incidentally saving the world in the process. 

Meanwhile, Harley was at her craziest with the Joker, and _he_ was the one who’d broken her out of Belle Reve.  Floyd could maybe convince himself that this was a rescue mission, not a capture.  If he worked on it. Hell, he had a bomb in his neck still, wasn’t like he had a choice.

They found Harley, and a firefight. Joker wasn’t there, and Floyd counted that lucky. Still, Harley and several of his goons were enough to deal with, considering Waller had only sent him, Flagg, and Croc on the mission. Why, Floyd hadn’t bothered to ask himself, until he finally drew a bead on Harley.

 _Aw, dammit, Waller,_ he thought. Harley was friendly with him and Croc, a little less so with Boomerang. Flagg, of course, was there for insurance, though Harley didn’t have any issues with him. Waller had sent the ones that Harley might be reluctant to target … which were also the ones who would be least likely to get in a little collateral damage when they brought her in.

His cross-hairs were poised just above Harley’s shoulder, factoring in gravity’s pull on the trajectory. Floyd felt that familiar calculation drop over him like a cloak, where nothing existed but the target and the trigger. He loved that feeling, loved knowing he was the best of the best at this. Shooting was what he’d been born to do, and nothing else in life came anywhere near the cold exultation of fulfilling his life’s purpose.

Harley started to turn, as if she knew he had her in his sights, but the part of Floyd’s mind that only cared about hitting the target made an automatic, slight correction as he pulled the trigger. Impact would be just below her collarbone, instead of into the trapezius. It didn’t matter, as long as the projectile hit muscle instead of bone.

The gun had very little recoil, and Floyd barely felt its kick against his shoulder. Through the scope he saw a splotch of red appear on Harley’s chest, saw her eyes widen. Only then did awareness return, the peculiar clarity of shooting-mind vanishing. _Shit, she just saw me shoot her,_ he thought, angry at Waller for putting him in this position.  
It didn’t matter. Even if these were only tranq darts, he wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to take the shot.

…

Flagg and Croc routed the remaining goons while Floyd went to Harley. She was unconscious on the floor, and he scooped her up, running with her to their evac vehicle. Waller had gone with an armored car for this one; people got suspicious of black helicopters flying around, but most wealthy people in Gotham used a bulletproof limo as much as they possibly could.  
Floyd laid her down across the seat, checking her vitals. Not something he had to do with most of his targets, he thought wryly. Her heartbeat was slow and steady, and her breathing was even. Then he plucked the dart out and tossed it aside, tugging her shirt down to check the wound it had made. Not bad, just a little thread of blood… 

… but there were faint bruises around her throat, old yellow discolorations barely there against her bleached-ivory skin. And on the swell of her breast, a flush of darker purple, a newer bruise.

Letting go of the collar, Floyd tugged the shirt up instead, baring her belly. There were big, dark bruises on her side, and his lip curled up in a snarl when he realized they were boot prints. He’d wonder what kind of sick fuck kicked someone when they were down, but he knew. He already knew. She must’ve been curled up, trying to protect her throat and belly, and the bastard had kicked the living hell out of her side from her breast all the way down. Floyd slipped a finger under the edge of the skirt she was wearing and pulled it away from her skin for a quick glance – yep, the bruises continued down to her hip.

“Well, hello, handsome,” Harley said, her voice slurring, and Floyd jerked back in surprise. That dose was supposed to keep her unconscious for three hours! His gaze flew to her face, and she gave him a woozy grin. “You gonna take advantage, now ya got me where ya want me?”

He’d been thinking like a team leader, assessing her injuries. Now, with that one remark, Floyd remembered Harley was a woman. A very attractive woman, at that, and it had been too damn long for him to even be concerned with attractiveness anymore. It might take Flagg and Croc five minutes to get back here, and considering he hadn’t had a woman since he’d been locked up in Belle Reve, five minutes would probably be enough.

While those thoughts flashed through his mind, Harley smiled at him. Not a flirtatious smile, not a condemning one either. Just … some kind of fatalistic amusement. She didn’t bother trying to get away, or pull her shirt down either.

Floyd did it for her, and took out one of the warming blankets the armored car had been stocked with. Anesthesia made people cold, and Waller didn’t want her stray coming back with hypothermia. Floyd shook the blanket out and covered her, while Harley blinked in surprise.

“Nah, dollface,” he told her, feeling an unexpected smile curve his mouth. “That ain’t how I roll.”

Harley managed a weak chuckle, her eyes slipping closed again. “Such a gentleman,” she murmured, and a minute after that she was out cold.

Flagg and Croc rolled up a couple minutes later, and the soldier had a worried look on his face. The sight of Harley, alive and unconscious and securely buckled in, made that expression disappear. “Good work,” he said, and Floyd just nodded. He didn’t know what Flagg had expected to find, and didn’t particularly want to ask. _Never forget, we’re the bad guys,_ he thought. _There’s **nothing** they don’t think we’d do. Even Flagg, but he’s learning better after we saved his ass in Midway City._

After all, Floyd Lawton had three rules about sex, and the first one was: don’t take what isn’t being offered.


	2. Rule Number Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when the squad can't sleep, waiting for a mission to start the next day? Harley has ideas.

The third mission was a stakeout, and as usual, Waller wasn’t telling them much about it. Floyd tried to squeeze some info out of Flagg, but not even he knew much. They were all given a base of operations to wait in – an abandoned hotel, as it happened – and left to their own devices with another standard warning about the nanite bombs in their necks. 

Harley had gotten a new one for this trip, and Waller had made a point of telling her that it could only be deactivated by Waller’s own authorization code and thumbprint. Harley, of course, had cocked her head and asked, “So, how _attached_ are you to your thumbs? I mean, really.”

Waller had just rolled her eyes, and sent them out. Now they were waiting, each having chosen a room for the night. Well, except Boomerang, he’d found the hotel’s bar and was convinced someone had to’ve left a stash of liquor behind. Floyd was still too awake, and spent his time cleaning his weapons. 

At least, until his door opened. Old habit had him on his feet with a gun drawn and two pounds of pressure on a two-and-a-half pound trigger, before he stopped to think it might be Flagg. But it wasn’t.

It was Harley, and she smiled at him. “Relax, it’s just me,” she said, walking into the room without even waiting for him to holster up.

“You ever hear of knocking?” he groused, but it was halfhearted. Harley didn’t seem to have much concept of personal space.

Which she proved by strolling right up to him. “Can’t sleep either, can ya?” she asked, looking closely at his eyes. Her own were alight with more insight than he found comfortable.  
“I don’t like not knowing what we’re up against,” he admitted. “Doesn’t exactly make me wanna let down my guard enough to sleep.”

“Whatever it is, it’s worse than us,” Harley said lightly. “Probably a lot more powerful, too, otherwise Waller wouldn’t send us in. Most likely we’ll all die tomorrow, but hey, what else’re we gonna do? Go back to our cells and take up knitting to pass the time?” She giggled at that, and Floyd couldn’t help a small smile in return. Just picturing Digger knitting sweaters in his cell … or Croc down in the basement… 

“Yeah, you got a point,” he said. “But if I can’t sleep, I might as well get ready for the fight. What else can I do, anyway?”

That was when Harley stepped into his space and laced her arms around his neck. Floyd was surprised, but some part of his brain was still active, and that part holstered the gun before he looped his arms around her waist.

Before he could ask what she thought she was doing, she kissed him. First woman he’d kissed in way too long, and Floyd responded to it a lot stronger than he would’ve thought. She smelled like cotton candy, and something else, something faint – he thought of old blood, of the soot from explosions, of lots of things it could be, but none of them were enough of a turn-off to stop him kissing her. Her shirt had ridden up when she stretched up to embrace him, and his hands found smooth, cool skin at the small of her back, the lively tension of muscles underneath.

Almost of their own volition, his hands moved down, cupping her rear. Harley was wearing those damn booty shorts again, and it felt like she was next to naked under his palms. He squeezed appreciatively, pulling her toward him, and she swiveled her hips up against him.

Harley broke the kiss to chuckle, a feral light in her eyes. “You like that, sugar?” she purred, arching her whole body against him.

Damn near took his breath away, and he answered hoarsely, “You know I do.” 

She smirked, and bit his lower lip playfully. “Then I guess we know what else you can do tonight, huh?”

Now it had been even longer since he’d had a woman, and his brain’s natural caution was currently been outvoted by regions further south. The bed four steps behind him was too far away, and Floyd was about to rip those shorts off and have her up against the wall when Harley murmured, “Besides, I owe you one, handsome.”

It gave him enough pause to murmur, “Owe me?” even as his restless hands gripped her hips and pressed his aching groin against her. She was _right there_ , and he could even _smell_ her, hot and wet and ready.

“You’re the guy who never misses, right?” Harley whispered, leaning up to trace the tip of her tongue over his earlobe. And then she nipped it, making him growl. “Waller told you to shoot me, and you _missed_. You picked not killing me over whatever she was offering you. I figure, I owe you one for that alone, not to mention taking me down with a tranq instead of a bullet.”

Oh, hell. Not that. “This what you call payback, Harley?” he asked, giving her ass another firm squeeze. 

She pushed up against him again, and her shirt was thin enough that he could feel her nipples harden under it. “Yeah. Come ‘n get it, sugar.”

Floyd kissed her one more time, hard enough to bruise her mouth, feasting on that sweet forbidden taste of her. She looked and tasted and felt too damned good. And then he stepped away, horny and pissed off at himself, but this was the only way it could go. “You wanna pay me back, Harley, just don’t pull the trigger when it’s me in your sights, all right? This, you don’t gotta do.” 

His animal desire for her roared in frustration, because unfortunately his brain had the veto on this one, and he was walking away from her astonished expression, leaving the room and most of his guns. Who knew, maybe the Aussie had found some liquor somewhere. Floyd figured getting drunk would be less dangerous, and even hungover he would still feel like a man and not some kind of pathetic horny animal.

He had three rules about sex, and the second one was: don’t pay for it. Even if the payment was in advance, he didn’t do sex as a _transaction_.


	3. Rule Number Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The squad are becoming something of a family ... dysfunctional, of course. As for Harley and Floyd, well ... this one gets a bit graphic.

After a couple more missions, Floyd caught himself calling the squad by their names. Flagg was Rick now, and he actually looked happy to see Floyd when they went out. Croc was Waylon, and he was a real stand-up guy, so long as you treated him like a man instead of a beast. Honestly Floyd started to forget how scary the guy looked to other people until they bumped into civilians or regular troops again. Boomerang was Digger, and  _that_ guy was maybe crazier than the rest of them, but somehow he always found a drink. And he was okay as long as you didn’t ask him about the pink stuffed unicorn he carried around.

Harley was always Harley. He tried Harleen on her once, and she’d slapped him for it, quicker than he ever saw coming. “Doctor Harleen Quinzel is dead, and good fucking riddance,” she’d spat at him, and Floyd didn’t want to go prying into that. She used to be a shrink, if she couldn’t fix herself, nothing an amateur could say to her was gonna be of any help.

At last, they had a straightforward assassination. Waller typically hadn’t told them much, but the guys in the building he was watching had conjured or captured some kind of evil entity, something on par with the Enchantress. Their only piece of luck was that, if he shot the guy the entity had possessed, all their problems were over.

Waller  _had_ stressed that the possessed guy was a volunteer who knew he’d be giving up his body to something evil, and unlike June, he was never in control. There was no way to eliminate the threat and save him, nor any point in saving him, since he would just do something equally reprehensible. Floyd had smirked at that; as if he needed his conscience soothed. Ten years off his sentence was reason enough to shoot a man. If it was a man possessed by something as dangerous as Enchantress, nothing else needed to be said.

Digger and Waylon were off with Rick, creating a distraction. Floyd was waiting for the moment when his target would pass in front of a window half a mile away, something that would only occur if his minders were busy fighting the rest of the Squad. This was a long shot, and it had to be two shots, actually. One explosive-tipped round to pierce the armored glass, and another to go right through the hole the first shot had made and actually kill the target. The kind of thing Deadshot lived for, to be honest. It could only be better if he’d had to shoot around a corner, but Waller had arranged for a straight shot. Just a very long distance, with windage and gravity to account for.

Meanwhile Harley was his backup, there just in case they were surprised while he was focusing on the shot, and she was bored. A bored Harley was a dangerous Harley, prone to walking into the line of fire and baiting their enemies into ‘playing’ with her. He’d seen her do it more than once, and it hadn’t escaped Floyd’s notice that most of Harley’s playmates ended up dead or maimed. Only problem was, there wasn’t anyone around this particular spot for her to play with.

Except Floyd himself. As he was setting up, she’d strolled over and picked up his sidearm, turning it over in her hands curiously. It was a much more compact weapon than the flashy revolver she carried, and she wrapped her delicate hands around the grip easily.

He really  _hated_ anyone interfering with his guns. Floyd managed to keep his tone casual; yelling at Harley just didn’t work. “Hey. Don’t touch my weapons, okay?”

She cocked her head and looked at him with interest. Exactly what he didn’t want. “Oh? Why not?”

“Nobody touches my guns but me. That’s just the way it is. Now hand it over.” She gave him the gun, but now Harley was intrigued, and Floyd just wanted her to stay out of the way while he lined up for the shot. 

Then again, when had he ever gotten exactly what he wanted?

He had the sniper rifle unpacked and set up, and was checking his line of sight. Prone would’ve been a more stable position, but he needed some more mobility, so he’d set it up on shooting sticks and was kneeling to aim. Stable enough, for him. Anyone else would’ve been forced to take the shot lying down with a sandbag under the muzzle.

Now they just had to wait for the distraction, and Harley wasn’t any good at waiting. She strolled around in front of his gun, and deliberately ran her fingertip across the top of the barrel, smirking at him. “Harley, I said keep your hands off my gun,” Floyd growled at her.

“Oh, no hands? I can do that.” She snickered, and bent her knees deeply, crouching right in front of his firing line.

Floyd leaned back from the scope, ready to give her a piece of his mind – or just knock her out, she was crossing the line and she damn well knew it, crazy or not – when Harley leaned forward and  _licked the barrel of the gun_ . That was just … so fucked up.

And hot. Fucked up, but  _definitely_ hot.

She wrapped her tongue around the barrel, making deliberate eye contact with him while she did it, then moved back and placed a red-lipped kiss right on the muzzle. Floyd could only stare at her, trying to decide if he was pissed off or turned on. Or both.

The look in her eyes was completely tuned-in, totally focused, and almost high from joy. All of a sudden he understood something about her. The way he felt when he smelled cordite and gun oil, when he stood ready with a target in his sights – that was the way  _Harley_ felt, when she was playing these kinds of games. For her, sex could be just as much a weapon as guns were for him. It was what she did, what she  _was_ , and her power came from using everyone’s desire against them. No wonder she wore the short shorts and fishnets, no wonder she’d casually changed clothes in front of a bunch of soldiers. She was no more shy about her body than he was about his armory.

That was almost scary to think, although at the same time, it was  _also_ still hot. The old lizard-brain in the back of his mind didn’t care how dangerous she was or that she was playing with his lust, for kicks. All it knew was that a woman like her had to be one helluva lay, and damn, despite being so in love with Joker, she  _did_ keep coming on to him. 

Finally, he manged to say in a thick voice, “Harley. _Stop._ _Touching. The rifle._ We got a job to do here, and I can’t shoot through you.”

She sighed and flopped down on the gritty roof in a full pout. “Floyd, you’re no  _fun_ ,” she complained.

“No, I’m not fun. I’m a real serious man,” he agreed, but at least he could put his eye to the scope again and go back to calculating the shot. And put Harley out of his mind for the moment, although he’d hoped she would stop sulking and watch his back.

Something exploded down on street level, following by gunshots and Waylon’s distinctive roar. Their distraction was on. Floyd got comfortable at his post, watching through the scope for their target.

That was the moment Harley whispered beside him, “So, can I touch  _this_ weapon?” And before he could snarl at her for disturbing him, her hand was on his leg. A playful caress, firm and knowing, down to his knee and up the inside of his thigh. His response was immediate, almost painfully intense, and he heard her chuckle at the growing hardness under her palm. Her breath was cool against his ear as her fingertips stroked over to his zipper. “Betcha won’t miss me with  _this_ gun, hmm?”

Movement, in the building where their target was. Somehow he found the strength of will to say to her, “Harley, if I miss this guy because of you, Waller’s never gonna let either one of us out again. That what you want?”

“Ugh, practical _and_ a gentleman,” Harley complained. “Didja take a vow of chastity or something? Just tell me, jeez.”

A shadow on the window, that might be their target, but he was having a damned hard time concentrating. Choosing between duty and desire, and hell, he knew what he had to do here. Never mind if what he  _wanted_ to do was toss the gun aside, yank her down on top of him, and see how many times he could get off before Waller showed up to taze them both. “Harley. Hands off, and shut the hell up.”

She sighed, and stormed away, but he could ignore the stomp of her heeled boots. The throb from his groin was less easy to dismiss, yet he did it. There was the target, and he was still Deadshot. The only thing better than sex was shooting. Squeezing the trigger twice, he saw the guy slump down from a perfect bullet to the forehead.

Breaking down the gun even as he stood up, he saw Harley scowling at him, her lower lip pouting in a caricature of ‘woman scorned’. Floyd shook his head a little; the last thing he wanted was her pissed off at him. “Look, Harley,” he said, and decided not to try for any kind of sweet-talk. She’d heard it all before, from a better liar than he was, and it had never meant anything then.

Best to just give her the straight deal. “I got three rules about sex, okay? One, I don’t take what ain’t offered, two, I don’t pay for it, and three, I don’t ever put it before business. Trust me, you are damn sure gorgeous, and a helluva lot smarter than you like to let on, and sexy as all hell. Just … not now.”

Her smile broke through like the sun through Gotham’s smog, and her whole demeanor perked up. “Aw, you  _are_ a real gentleman,” she practically cooed. “Who knew Deadshot was such a sweetheart.”

“I ain’t nobody’s sweetheart,” he told her, half-laughing. “Now come on, we gotta meet up with the rest of the squad.”

Harley linked her arm through his and practically  _skipped_ to the fire escape. Only later, as Waller debriefed them and complimented them all on staying focused on the mission, did Harley tip him a wink, and Floyd knew he was in for trouble at some point in the future.

If he was lucky, it might be the good kind of trouble.

 


	4. Rules Were Made to Be Broken

Waller managed their time awfully closely, so there weren’t any more taunting encounters for a while. Well, except when Floyd was alone in the shower, thinking about that cotton-candy scent of her and the way Harley had grinned at him while she licked the gun. Seemed like she’d given him a whole new kink, with that.

It was Harley who planted the idea, after mission eight or nine. Another damn difficult one – even by Suicide Squad standards – and a couple of the new recruits had gotten badly sliced up in the process. As was becoming customary after they’d all put out an extraordinary effort, the Squad demanded some extra perks beyond the usual time off their sentences. In Floyd’s case, Waller had started allowing him to see his daughter after every successful mission, without him even asking.

Harley was the last one to speak up. “Y’know, Wall, you oughta give us some social time,” she said.

“Because letting a bunch of highly dangerous criminals have sleepovers is the best possible use of my resources,” Waller said dryly, and started to look past her.

“The only reason you give us perks is so you have something to take away,” Harley pointed out, and everyone else shut up. Digger even stopped trying to surreptitiously sip the beer he’d smuggled in. Harley was sitting with her legs crossed at the ankle, that ditzy grin on her face, but the intelligence in her eyes was all too keen.

“Keep your suppositions to yourself, Quinn,” Waller warned, but Rick didn’t say anything to back her up like he usually would. He was just staring at the ground as if he expected it to open up and swallow him.

Harley just rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh,  _come on_ . We’re the worst of the worst. You got us in a black hole already, and the only time you let us out we’ve got bombs in our necks. You need more leverage than that, you know that  _we_ know there’s nothing worse you can do to us.”

“I assure you, I can _find_ worse,” Waller warned.

“Nah, you don’t do torture. At least not the kind that gets your hands dirty. Besides, you know people work better for rewards – or in fear of _losing_ their rewards – than they do under threat of punishment. Basic behaviorism, B.F. Skinner 101. So you give us privileges, something you can hold over our heads. And the more we play nice, the more you give. Our sentences are never gonna go away, ‘cause then you don’t have a leash … ooh, wait. You _do_ , you can hold us with our _records_ , ‘cause none of us are ever gonna get a straight job. Who’s gonna hire Waylon? Or me? Can ya see the two of us bagging groceries for eight bucks an hour? Even if we _do_ get out, we’ll be back in soon enough. The best we can do is keep on working for you. You really _are_ the devil. And you’re good at it.”

“Do you have a point, Quinn, or should I terminate you now?” Waller said coldly.

Harley giggled. “Jeez, calm  _down_ . I’m trying to  _help_ you! See, most of the reason we all lived through the  _first_ time you sicced us on something bigger ‘n badder than us, was because we really  _were_ a team by the time we went up against her. We all look out for each other. You wanna foster that, right? Get that whole band-of-brothers thing working, so nobody even thinks of trying to cut and run, because we wouldn’t leave each other in the lurch. Problem is, it’s hard to give a damn about someone if you only see ‘em when you and them are shooting at the even-worse guys.”

“What do you _want_ , Quinn?” Waller asked, and her voice was low and dangerous … but Floyd thought that she was also pretty close to conceding the point.

“Time outside the cells,” Harley said promptly, and perkily, like a straight-A student giving what she knew was the right answer. “You sent us all to that hotel once, and nobody ran away. Maybe treat us like trustees, y’know? Outside-time is another privilege you can revoke for all of us if anybody screws up. Plus, you still got the bombs, and you got security on us locked down so tight I’m scared you’ll get _yourself_ shot, coming to talk to us.”

That brought a scattering of laughter from the rest. Just a couple of weeks ago, one of the guards had forgotten his ID. He hadn’t noticed until he parked his car, so he tried to go back home and get it. Except, the car leaving at an odd hour had flagged security’s interest, and they confronted the poor bastard, at which point he couldn’t prove who he was due to not having his ID. For that one mistake the guy had gotten tazed, tranq’d, and locked in a cell for almost 48 hours while they DNA tested him to make sure he was really who he said he was. Listening to him rave had amused those members of the squad who could hear him; even the other guards thought he might be an escapee whose appearance was somehow magically altered.

“I’ll consider it,” Waller said, and did move on then, directly asking Flagg for his report.

 

…

 

It wasn’t the next mission, but the one after that, the Squad found themselves with thirteen hours between successfully wrapping it up, and the evac. They hunkered down in a former factory, not the coziest accommodations, but it sure beat the cells. Floyd found an office with a couch, and opened up his first aid kit, ready to clean and suture a gash on his arm that he didn’t even remember getting.

“Knock-knock,” Harley said from the doorway, her voice a singsong. “Anybody home?”

Floyd’s mouth was suddenly dry. They finally had a chance … and given what he’d realized about Harley and how she used her sexuality as a weapon, he half expected her to tease him and shut him down. Keeping his voice deliberately calm, he said, “Hey, dollface. Whatcha need?”

“Actually, since you ask…” she trailed off, and walked into the room, taking her jacket off. The shirt underneath was ripped … and it hadn’t been that red when they started out. She was stripping it off as she continued, matter-of-factly, “One of those freaks got me across the ribs. I can’t reach it to stitch. Help a girl out?”

“Sure,” Floyd said, and swallowed. Her bra was just as skimpy and sequined as he’d imagined, but that wasn’t what mattered. The knife slash was a good six inches long, crossing her ribs on a diagonal. It looked nasty, but a good cleaning and some stitches would set it right. Harley sat down on the couch, her back to him, and Floyd found the antiseptic spray. “This’s gonna sting,” he warned before he spritzed it liberally.

Harley just laughed. “Don’t worry about me, sugar. I know from sting, and …  _owww_ , damn, that ain’t half what it could be. One time, my puddin’ said he was gonna put some numbing spray on a cut, but it was really lemon juice! Ain’t that a joke?”

_Don’t say anything,_ he told himself, mopping up the mixture of blood and antiseptic that ran from the wound.  _You don’t wanna get into it. You_ _**really** _ _don’t._ So he focused on getting the wound clean, making sure there weren’t any bits of fabric lodged in it. “All right, hold still while I stitch this up, okay?”

“Sure,” Harley said, but she squirmed a little when the needle went in, and again when he pulled the suture taut. Not so much that he couldn’t get the job done, but it was noticeable. On the third stitch, Harley held back snickering laughter to tell him, “Sorry, it’s just … that kinda tickles.”

“Tickles, huh?” Floyd asked, laughing himself. Stitches weren’t a big deal to him anymore, but only Harley could experience it as a _tickle_. He reminded himself again not to ask what counted as _hurt_. She’d been back with the Squad for months now, but right now he could see the knotted spots where her ribs had been broken, sometime in the past.

Stitches complete, a layer of antibiotic gel smeared over the wound, and Floyd taped on a clean bandage only a little whiter than her bleached skin. “All done,” he said.

“Thanks,” Harley said, and turned to him, not bothering with her shirt or her jacket. “What about you? Got any injuries on ya? Remember, I went to med school.”

“Just this scrape, but I got it,” Floyd told her.

She took his arm anyway, looking at the wound, which was probably a bullet graze now that he studied it. “Nope, I know how sensitive you are about payback. You stitch me, I stitch you, we’re even-Stevens. Got it? Now pass that spray.”

He had to laugh at that, shaking his head, but he let her doctor the wound anyway. Harley’s stitches were neater and more compact than the ones he’d left on her back, and she used a little less tape on the bandage while still making it feel secure. “Thanks,” he said.

“Good,” she intoned, putting the first aid kit aside. And still sitting there in just her bra and a skirt, she cocked her head to give him a serious look. “You made up anymore pesky rules yet, sugar?”

Harley was dangerous. Even when she didn’t mean to be. Every self-preservation instinct he had warned him not to mess with her. Keep it just colleagues, keep her at arm’s length. Still, Floyd’s pulse started to thrum a lot lower just with those few hinting words. “Thought you were the Joker’s girl,” he managed to say.

Real anger sparked in her eyes, and it was frightening in its coldness. “Nobody owns me,” Harley said harshly.

There were plenty of reasons why he should’ve walked away … and a whole lot more justifications for staying, if he could spare the brainpower to dream them up. By then, Floyd was done with good sense. “Got no problem with that,” he said, softly, and reached to tip Harley’s chin up. The wrath drained away, leaving that curious, playful look, and her smile was genuine as he whispered, “C’mere, dollface.”

“Stay evil?” Harley suggested, sliding into his lap with practiced grace.

“Somethin’ like that,” Floyd said, and kissed her deep and slow.

It was the last thing that was  _slow_ for a while, considering how long it’d been for him, but they had thirteen hours to evac. More than enough hours to make the second time slow … or the third.

 


End file.
